Raven
by escapebutterfly
Summary: Before the girl on fire, there was the girl that could fly. Raven Hart is the girl tribute from district ten. This is her story. Rated T for violence and occasional swearing.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

I trudge past the indefinite number of trees that surround the path for what seems like the umpteenth time today. I look down at my feet, noticing the golden tinge of the leaves beneath them. Autumn is here. And so are The Hunger Games. The reaping takes place this afternoon.

I look up to see the sun finally breaking out of the clouds, the fields being soaked in sunshine. Even with the thoughts of the reaping lingering in my mind, I find myself smiling. The sincerity of nature around district ten makes me feel almost safe. The same ritual takes place every year – I walk at least a mile, if not two or three, before going home to prepare. The sixty eighth Hunger Games will be no different.

"Raven!"

I whip around just in time for a scarf to hit me in the face. I spit the fabric away and my eyes close on instinct. Saphra laughs and walks over to me, the grin still remaining on her face. I don't bother hiding my glare.

I narrow my eyes at her, "What was _that_ for?"

She blinks innocently. Only then do I pay attention to the scarf in my hands. Almost instantly, my teeth clench.

"Where the hell did you get this?"

She jumps as I raise my voice, "Relax, will you? I-"

"Stay out of my stuff, Saphra."

I watch her through the corner of my eye as she walks alongside me, sheepishly. We continue through the greenery but it loses its appeal. My morning walk has been interrupted.

Saphra clears her throat, "Mother was asking about you."

I glance at her in acknowledgement.

"She was wondering if you'd like to join us for breakfast."

I fix my gaze ahead, "I can't – I have work to do."

She nods her head nonchalantly and we walk the rest of the way in silence. Saphra jogs towards her home and I head in the opposite direction. Colton bought home enough food the day before, so there's no need for me to head to the market. Nevertheless, I find myself opening the door to father's butcher shop. I automatically grab an apron and large knife from the drawer, my gaze trailing along a juicy piece of meat left on the counter. I thump away, slicing evenly and hardly squinting as blood splatters across my face. Too engrossed in my current position, I fail to notice my father open the door to start another morning.

"Alright, Ray?"

I slam the knife down on the chopping board. It stands firmly on end, no doubt leaving a noticeable mark and startling him.

Noticing his anxious look, I visibly relax and let out a sigh. "Fine, I guess."

He smiles kindly, "Rough morning?"

"You could say that."

We get started immediately and I lose myself, along with track of time, as I handle the meat. I take pleasure in the comfortable silence, but manage to light up as we make small talk from across the room. The morning seems to end too rapidly for my liking, so I take my time in clearing up and closing up shop. Father is outside draining a bowl of bloody water when I step out.

"You should head home now, it's almost time."

His voice almost breaks, but he manages to cover it up convincingly with a chesty cough. Still not as convincing as he thought.

I grimace before taking my leave.

Passing the market once more, I am able to notice further than when I rushed here in anger. Young children and most of the population have been kept inside for obvious reasons. I only manage to see a handful of people as I make my way home, most likely stocking up on necessities. During this time, family gatherings seem to be a crucial time to mourn and prepare in case of a certain tribute being called up unexpectedly. It all seems to happen too fast, flash by in an instant. I can almost smell the Capitol aura hanging in the air, inching closer to us.

I clear my thoughts, count to ten and breathe out. My hand reaches for the door and, before I know it, I have reached home. Colton immediately makes for me and sighs in relief.

He growls, "You're late."

I glance at the clock – there's half an hour left until the reaping – and shrug. I have plenty of time. I bathe in five minutes, as always, and change into my reaping clothes. The blood stained apron and outfit lies on the floor. I tie my hair sloppily into a low bun and don't even bother looking into the mirror.

I hear the door open from downstairs, and walk over to see my father in clean clothes. His hair has been brushed back compactly and his creased forehead makes him look older than he already is.

We stand, just looking at each other. This is no time for words – they cannot change anything. He seems to understand this as he wraps his arms around me. Colton stomps down the stairs and we let go reluctantly. He analyses my appearance and I shift on my feet. His brow furrows and he mutters something incomprehensibly before opening the door. I don't ask him to repeat himself.

The square looks a lot more dull and grey than it usually is. All around me, children are dressed in pastel, decorated for such a horrific occasion. I don't waste any time making small talk or trying to find familiar faces in the crowd and, as usual, people that do know me tend to avoid me. Except for one.

"You ready?"

Saphra's voice catches me a few people away, "You should get back to your place."

"I will," she mumbles back.

I scowl before turning my back on her and making my way nearer to the front with the other seventeen year olds. On my way, I manage to catch a glimpse of my father and nod at him in recognition. He replies with a faint smile and all I can do to stop myself from blubbering like a baby is to face the front.

The stage is set up with three seats to the side. A podium is placed close to the centre and next to it a table – topped with the two reaping balls that are filled with dozens of slips of paper, each carrying a name of a potential tribute. Banners hang from buildings, addressing the event with pride that is evidently not present in the people of ten. They stretch many feet across, trying their best to cover the filth and grime adorning the buildings they have been placed upon. After a few minutes of whispering and last second preparations, the district clock begins to chime and we instantly fall silent. The mayor takes his place centre stage and begins his speech on the history of Panem, including great detail of the Dark Days.

I zone out after a few minutes. The speech stretches on and my attention turns to my aching back and sore feet. I shift uncomfortably. My eyes begin to wander across the stage. I observe our district's escort – Magnus – perched daintily on one of the seats. His eyes flutter as he examines us, surely with pity. I resume listening to the speech as it turns towards past victors that originated from ten. Since the Games started, there have been three. Only one is alive – Jett May. He is seated next to Magnus, who seems to be inching away without making it seem so obvious. But the most noticeable thing about Jett is his horrifyingly thin body and how his clothes seem to sink into him. His face is expressionless as he stares into the distance. I feel as if I am about to throw up.

And then Magnus' presence is established. He leaps up from the chair and flashes a dazzling smile. His red hair and peachy clothes make him look like a clown, out of place, but he is able to appear comfortable despite the uneasy silence and sharp looks he receives in return. He babbles on about what a wonderful time he is having so far and how great it is to be in district ten, although neither of these points seems to be fulfilled. The girl standing next to me starts fidgeting as Magnus walks over to one of the reaping balls. He smirks playfully whilst swirling his hands through the globe, and I feel the sudden urge to slap him. Painfully.

My anger is suddenly replaced with fear as a white slip has been chosen. He takes his time walking back to the stand, evening out the paper with his perfectly manicured nails and clearing his throat. His toying finally comes to an end and he calls out, in a silky deep voice.

"Saphra Holt."

The tension drops for everyone else and I manage to pick up a few accounts of whispering. I slowly turn my head, afraid of what I might see and bracing for impact.

Saphra is a few feet behind, but close enough for me to make out the sudden paleness in her cheeks. She already resembles a corpse. Her eyes begin to glisten, or maybe it's the sun in my eyes except I still manage to recognise a single sob escaping her lips. She is surrounded by Peacekeepers and almost dragged to the stage. I don't know what else to think.

Her name was only in their six times. Even my chances of being picked were greater. Saphra never had to take out tessera – her family were well-off enough to not miss even a single meal. Maybe that's why I suddenly feel so light-headed. Or maybe because I don't actually dislike my neighbour after all, and the idea of never speaking to her again –

"Now, are there any volunteers?"

My eyes snap up. Saphra slowly moves her head across the people in front of her, as if trying to absorb them into her memory. Then her gaze lands on me.

The following few minutes are a blur. I find my feet turning in an instant, the group of people surrounding me beginning to realise what I am about to do. They move out of the way. I stand up straight. Head held high. First impressions are important to the Capitol. The next words leave my mouth before they even register in my head.

"I volunteer as tribute."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

The faces that turn towards me are startling. Thankfully, my voice does not waver or show any signs of fear. Atleast that is what I hope. I am studied with such dread, surprise and sympathy that I need to look away.

Magnus, on the other hand, is beaming.

"How _wonderful_! It has been so long since we've had a volunteer from district ten!"

I swallow the lump forming in my throat and try to calm myself. That last thing I want is to be seen as pathetic on national television.

Magnus laughs and I almost believe that I have said that out loud. "Well, come on up then!"

The Peacekeepers have already moved away from Saphra, who is now out of my line of vision, and I march with them towards the stage. I almost trip because my legs are shaking so much, but I handle my nerves by jogging up and placing myself next to Magnus. He breathes a sigh of content – as if I have somehow managed to improve the quality of the reaping's entertainment value from our district.

His praise seems to continue, "Isn't this lovely? Let's have a hand for-"

He cuts himself off and turns to face me. I speak my name and it seems to echo across the district square like a rocket.

Magnus places his arm around me, grins, and exaggerates my presence. "Raven Hart!"

The silence that follows is deafening. Still it makes me feel glad. For one thing, it wipes the excitement from Magnus completely. He stands awkwardly, expecting a loud cheer to start any moment. Only it doesn't. The second reason behind my relief is that the people from district ten haven't conformed, haven't applauded and hopefully never will. Our resentment towards the Games can only be shown through one safe method, which is the silence we let loose. This is one thing I am certain of and it is enough for my legs to stop shaking, heart to stop fluctuating and eyes to stop drooping. I at last manage to raise my sight.

Saphra is being held up by another girl from the district. She isn't screaming, crying or even moving for that matter. She looks so distant that tears are threatening to fall out of _my_ eyes. But I won't let them.

Magnus, still oblivious to all of this, walks over to the other reaping ball, "And now for the male tribute!"

Jay Lark is called to the stage. I don't recognise him. He seems a lot calmer and more formal than I thought was even possible. He is of average height and build with dark brown hair. He locks eyes with me, in what appears to be sympathy, but I only respond with an illegible look. Magnus asks for any volunteers. He is answered with silence. I follow Jay's gaze to a woman sobbing into someone's cloak. She must be his mother.

I am still astonished by his composure that I zone out of the Treaty of Treason before it even begins. It is routine for both tributes to shake hands, so we do – his palms aren't clammy like mine – and then the anthem signifies the end of the reaping.

We are divided at this point into separate rooms within the Justice Building. The doors close on me and I stand for a moment – taking in my surroundings. The most luxurious pieces of furniture are scattered in an unfamiliar room. I stand in awe for what seems like minutes, before stumbling towards a velvet coated chair. I sink into it immediately, trying to find comfort in its warmth. I have exactly an hour to say goodbye and show any emotion before I am led to the train station, where several cameras will be situated.

"How could you?_"_

I shoot up at the raw voice that booms across the room. I hadn't even heard the door open or close behind her.

Saphra stands there, half-glaring half-sobbing into her hands. Her voice is full of wonder. I bite my lip.

She curses, only this time, with sorrow being emitted in her voice and doesn't hesitate to rush over and fling her arms around me. I am stunned. She begins to shiver as we stand there – her still blubbing profanities, and me thinking of how this is the first and last time we embrace.

Finally, she manages to contain herself and pull away slowly. She whispers, "You saved me."

I swallow the lump in my throat and put on a ghost of a smile. Then I tell her to look out for my father in case anything happens to him.

Saphra nods hurriedly before changing the subject. Her voice comes out in pieces as she hiccups. "Thank you. For getting me out of trouble these past few years. And for being there. You didn't have to, but you did. Thank you."

"Shut up before you make me weep," I force myself to smirk. It works though because her heart stops threatening to pump out of her chest.

"I love you, Raven." Her voice is so honest that I am at a loss for words. I don't get a chance to say it back in case I really _will_ cry and won't manage to stop in time and the cameras will get to see –

"Stay away from Colton," is the last thing I murmur before she is forced to leave too soon.

I fall back on my seat, overcome with too many sensations in such a short period of time.

As if on cue, Colton comes to see me. Before I hear the door slam, I am hopeful of whom it might be. His anger is something he doesn't bother hiding.

He glares at me. Not like Saphra did, not of distress, but a full-on seething expression. I blink.

That really starts him off.

"What the hell-?"

He punches the wall on his right and I leap up along with my heart. They must have heard that outside. And that must have left a mark. I try breathing through my mouth to ease my body and mind but nothing seems to work. I am helpless as he makes his way towards me and snarls.

"_You_ always seem to ruin _my_ life," he spits, his words like venom.

I hold my shivering arms in place and stare at anything – _anything –_ but him.

He sees my silence as defiance and snaps, "Well? Aren't you going to _say_ something?"

I am forced further back into my chair as he leans closer. His eyes and teeth seem to sink into me threateningly. He pulls away and runs his hands through his hair.

He doesn't have to spell the words out for me to understand. He blames me. I was born just before mother was sent to the arena, at eighteen. She did manage to return – in a coffin, washed, with clean clothes and her token still hanging onto her. She was too weak to fight or even escape. Luna, of district ten, was bludgeoned at the Cornucopia in less than a few minutes. Colton was only two. I was only a week old.

As if reading my thoughts, he turns towards me. "She left us. God damn it, she left us!" He breathes deeply, "And now _you_. You'll make his life like hell. He'll have lost two of you."

My father. Will he turn up to this room sobbing? Screaming? Hiding behind another smile? The different scenarios play out in my head and I feel dizzy. Colton rages on, pacing around restlessly like a predator.

"Who am I trying to fool?" He laughs bitterly. "You're weak. Useless. Just like your _mother_."

I flinch. The last few words slice open my ears. She was anything but weak. Without thinking twice, I bolt up and my hand seems to do the same. I strike him on the cheek. _Hard_.

Colton stumbles back in disbelief. He clutches the flushed side of his face with one hand, the other hanging limp at his side. His eyes bore into mine, and I catch a glimpse of him as a child, after being punished for something so trivial, of a child losing his mother at such a young age. I can only stare back as the understanding pieces together.

I am tossed back into the present as he lunges at me in rage.

"You son of a-"

The door flings open to reveal a Peacekeeper. He stands to the side, almost sheepishly, and I get the feeling that he has overheard everything. A small part of me even believes he interrupted to stop my face swelling up before I am put out for the Capitol.

He repeats in a monotonous tone, "Time's up."

We are frozen in place – Colton's arm in mid-air and my face scrunching in expectation of his blow.

His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, that I almost believe I imagined it, before he storms out of the room. My eyes trail to the Peacekeeper who nods ever so slightly at me – in pity? Acknowledgment? What else could there be?

Another figure approaches.

I recognise his soft footsteps before he even reveals his face.

As soon as we have our privacy, I crawl into his lap.

"Daddy..." I whimper at him, trying to mould myself against his tenderness. I close my eyes, imagining this isn't real – it _can't_ be real – that I'm not about to struggle to survive, I'm not loathed by my brother, I haven't lost my mother, I _won't_ lose my father. I'm not seventeen; I'm still a toddler in his lap. It's just a nightmare. It's only dark. I've had a bad dream and my father is here to console me, to sing me lullabies, to make me chuckle.

Only he doesn't. He doesn't try to comfort me or give me false hope. He simply presses something soft into my hand – me still in his arms – and we silently count down the seconds until I'm to go.

* * *

Thank you for the reviews. _All_ criticism – constructive or not – is appreciated.


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